Perceptions
by NightWatch24
Summary: When first setting out on the quest, Legolas considers his companions and the elusivness of hope.
1. Chapter 1

**Perceptions**

**Summary: When first setting out on the quest, Legolas considers his companions and the elusiveness of hope. **

It did not take long, a scant three days, to form a clear picture of this strange party which had bound to one another in the service of an impossible cause.

Aragorn was simple enough, the finery of Rivendel, even antiquitated, seemed unsuited for him. The songs and art had been with him since infancy, or so Elrond had told me, but perhaps that only weighed on him more, the ever-burdening weight of knowing just how noble things had been when faced with the present. He was threadbare and worn, all rusted out and weary - too weary to go and rebuild a crumbling nation, to fight a war which would stand as the division between all things good and evil. He was not fitted for rule, come back when he had spent some years well-dressed and healthy, married even. Come asking for a king when he was the shining example of a fighter and a man, not now when he was weary with years and hardship.

Boromir was simple to comprehend as well, he wore his nobility draped over his shoulders, casual and arrogant. In every mark where Aragorn in appearance had failed, Boromir was superior, down to his toenails. Yet their were depths as of yet unexplored here. He was the sole guardian, aside from the steward who was rumored to have gone mad (or says the white council of which my own father is a part), the sole guardian of a crumbling city, the trailing and broken years of a once-great empire. How desperate, how despairing, might this stewards-son prove to be?

Gimli, well he was a dwarf. I was by reflex snide in our encounters, and we have not made up, for the divisions of our races lie between us. But here is what I have percieved, perhaps unwillingly. He is boasting and lacking in tact, but those could be attributed to culture. Always blustering without any real fire, he is evertime certain that he will impress and furious at any contradiction or slight. Yet he is honest a warrior, more honest than the man of Gondor, I daresay. He takes pride in things worthy of pride: family, home, good fighting and good eating, and song - and if he takes a little too much pride, well, there is little to be said about that. He seems greatly superstitious about elves and "magic" in general, more than I was given to expect. But he is good at heart.

Mithrandir is the undisputed leader, and I know that for Aragorn his presence is a relief from the responsiblities which he appears to dread. He is a wizard, and like Aragorn I do not doubt, nor cease to remember, the depth of strength and light within him. But it has sunken far beneath the surface, like an apricot which has dried up in the sun - the nut is good but the exterior wrinkled and unable to nourish. He is often muttering aloud, forgetful, and tart. I think sometimes that his glory was during the glory days of Gondor and that he has simply remained beyond his due, like some persistant thing. Yet, considering the vastness of the evil before us, he is our forefront breaker, that which, though crumbling, stands between us and the rising storm. He is all we have and all we have must be enough.

Then there are the hobbits.

Frodo is complicated, perhaps the most complicated of us here. I have heard, evesdropping on Merry and Pippin, that Frodo was considered the town wealth back where they come from - wealthy but a bit odd. I'm not surprised, as I've met Bilbo myself and any of his relations are bound to be a little different. Bilbo, in the one hand bumbling hobbit in a much-too big world of elves and battles, in the other hand a scholar busily translating ancient things into common tongues, pushing and demanding and blustering - sometimes even charming - to get what he wants. And what is his heir like? Quiet, for the most part. I think that all the things of Bilbo dazzled him in his youth, like a bee to honey. But then Bilbo left and maybe he felt he needed to fill his shoes, or maybe the ring really did affect him, but at any rate he became odd in his own right, taking walks, discussing those strange and wonderful things with his young friends Merry and Pippin, even translating some poetry. And then the ring beckoned him into a story of his own. A very much uncomfortable story which, the more you look at it, seems to come with a very unhappy ending. What then?

Sam is first and always a gardener. He is the first to notice the landscape and the plants, last to notice hardship. For all his caring I doubt he really has any idea of what he is headed for or where he might be going. He seems to regard the rest of us simply as compatriots, those who like himself decided to dedicate ourselves to Frodo, God bless him, and to help out with the crummy business of destroying an evil ring. Mostly he is practical and subservient. He seems a little of a romantic though, I heard him humming an elvish tune, something he no doubt picked up from his master, and there were tears in his eyes. What does hardship do to one such as this? Does it mold him into something bitter and listless? Or are the roots of this being held so fast and so deep that they simply endure, whatever the circumstances? If this be the measure of a hobbit, I am curious over what their country must be like.

Pippin is exuberant. He is hard to fatigue, either mouth or body or appetite. In this he is very youthful and, I think, the envy of every elf. Like Sam, he is somewhat oblivious, but he gives the impression of knowing enough to be quite frightened. He merely covers it with a show of cheer and ease. For all of this, he is completely loyal to Frodo, just as a friend instead of a servant. It must be for his friends that he went on such a wretched journey at all, and that says quite a bit for him.

Merry - well, he had the inbred confidence and easy candor of one who sees life not neccessarily as a thing to be understood but to be explored, and at times tested. He was also a good deal more intelligent than his humble, country upbringing made one to believe. I wonder at the amount of hell-raising he might've done in his home country with nothing to stand in his way. Heroism would find him, of that I was certain, both because of his personality and because of the present circumstances, though I doubt he would take it for more than it is but merely greet it with a shrug go about his business.

And myself? Outside of a pomp and titlery I remain a misfit among elves. I had come merely to relay some news to Elrond. But Elrond himself pulled me aside, knowing as he does how I, strangely, care for the fate of this land and of those who inhabit it. No other natural elf is so, by now consumed with some little or greater longing to sail away. We remain for our own reasons - my father remains only until the last of of people should leave, and some are more hesitant than others. But my attachments to the mortal Peoples of this earth cannot be explained. For all my cares, I pin some great hope on Aragorn, though I do not express as much. If he should fail, then there is little for me here. And, doubtless, his hopes lie with Frodo, and thus we are on this quest.

I look about myself sometimes, at our fellowship who struck out through a wilderness hedged at every side by knife and fang and orc, then evil wizards and a gathering gloom. I wonder that an aging wizard, a rag-tag man, a prideful and silly dwarf, the son of a steward, three wealthy hobbits and one gardener, and myself a wayless elf who bizzarly cares more for this land than for paradise - I look and I wonder how such a motley band like ours could ever be responsible for the fate of this world? How the wise ever could look upon us and see any hope at all? How, should we succeed, they might ever laud us as heros when we are merely desperate and lonely beings grouped together and set at an impossible task that we chose to follow despite all reason.

One day we will all fade into ledgend, and become lost or distorted by the reaches of time, and I in far paradise may cease to care as I care now so very fervently. But I pray that we will succeed. Against all odds I pray we succeed.

**--NightWatch24**


	2. Chapter 2

**Perceptions**

We ran. Many leagues we ran under the sun, at times striding, at times leaping forward like a trio of young stags, and in each of our secret hearts burnt a fierce light kindled at the mere mention of those small beings held captive. I remembered the merry-making of Pippin, the envy of us elves, and I thought of Merry, wondering if his boldness and intellect could possibly benefit them.

And onward we ran.

I did not think of Frodo, I could not. By now my heart was so completely tied up in his mission that any preponderance now would only lead to despair. We had come, further than I had originally thought possible, through the Mines of Moria without the obliteration of our selves or our mission - though at the greatest expense. We had come, too, through the trees of Lothlorien and once again the Wise put their faith in us, though at times I myself am unable to do so. What hope have we now without Mithrandir, surely our greatest weapon? The footpad has left us as well, I did not think he would keep pace with us long, but it has struck fear into my heart for it would mean that the creature has divined the splitting of our company and has turned off eastward, trailing Frodo. I do not allow myself to pursue such thoughts further, they would only cripple what forces we have, of which Hope is both the most feeble and the most strong.

At last, though too late, we came to the long green fields. Here we met Eomer who, though proud, was courteous. As Aragorn spoke with him about the conditions of Rohan I wondered again why I was so quick to love the strange mortal races. Here was a man, dirty but proud, tall but ignorant even of his closest neighbors, quick to fight but also surprisingly quick to forgive. And instead of pity, or worse disgust, I am infalliably turned to affection. How strange the race of Men, with their lilting speech and roughness! How stranger still that I should desire them to prosper in a land that has always belongs to the undying.

I shall not describe for you Fangorn. It is a place that ought to be known individually, and I am loath to share it even in words.

It was there that I felt the White Wizard, though, and erroniously believed it might be another. The power of the Wizard of the highest order is something so overwhelming that the finite details of person are somewhat lost. Power is not to be trifled with. It was with jubilation that I found it was Mithrandir, for I had mourned him. But I cannot say it was the same Mithrandir returning that had first left us. This White Wizard was a new and wholly different being from the Gray Pilgrim, and at last I realized that Gandalf's glory days were not the heyday of Gondor, but more truly these present times. It is now the crowning moment for Gandalf, reborn in power, to complete the task he had been sent for.

At Edoras I realized again just how very changed our dear leader was. No longer the grumpy, aged old man, throwing good advice coated as bad news at high kings. Now he strode forward with purpose, and even the playful show of age was now only that - a show. The apricot was gone, the golden core was all that remained. It was fearsome, but it gave me hope again, such that I fervently believed again in our mission. I cannot say what the others thought of such things. It is not in our habit to discuss them and I feel that elvish ideas would impress too much of my speech to really achieve any form of conversation of that kind between my companions and myself. It is not in how we are made.

Mithrandir did not remain with us long - swift now, he had many errands and even less time than before, and like a hawk he was gone from us. I think that his trials have passed beyond the trials of the fellowship, and though we would help him and he us, it is become impossible. We have enough our own burdens to bear.

It was Aragorns near brush with death that set me towards despair. Hope, in these times, is a fleet thing. A hare would be easier to capture than that elusive thing called hope. And though he returned, the damage was done. How easy was it to go from: "the king of Gondor is dead, our mission is failed." To come to: "the king of Gondor has returned, but will perish in a battle come to through stupidity, and still our mission will fail." Strangely I did not begrudge Theoden. I merely desired Aragorn, if none other, to leave and take a road that did not end in his destruction. More than just Rohan had need of Elessar. I would remain and die if I must, and Gimli with me if he chose, but Aragorn could not, must not.

I was wrong of course. Again the feebleness and strength of hope were proven. Without it, all decisions turn wayward, and all council with it. Perhaps it is the reason the Wise have unwisely believed in us for so long. Not because it is reasonable but because it is hopeful. And though I find my error and repent of it, even now I cannot help but fear for our future. A terrible burden of anxiety has been cast over my brow, for I see only struggle and pain before us. It is a battle we will fight, though we may not win.

At times of late I think heavily of my homeland. I know that I left things in disarray, and we were under seige for great lengths. Even should they wish to aid the world of mortals, and truly they do not, it would be impossible to do so without abandoning Mirkwood to ruin. It is our curse to be so bound. It is my curse to be so free. My affections for others is at the expense of my home.

In battle I awake fierce joy, and Gimli feels it too. At times I think that we are closer than either of our races truely realizes. With that great joy comes a flowing of love for the peoples of Rohan, those I fight for and alongside. It cannot be explained or rationalized, but by it I am tied every more tightly to the fates of these.

Strangely the battle of Helms Deep is a victory, though at a rare cost. Still, we have come through the fire. Each encounter I had but a shard of hope that we would survive we have come past and prevailed. Aragorn is set now, I can see it in him, nigh from the moment he first met Eomer on the plains and declared himself by his right name (though at the time he thought Gandalf gone from us). He too has passed through perils, and there is only one road now left open to him: that which leads to kingship. It is by that road we will follow him, to whatever end it may lead. Death haunts us by the minute, and victory elusive to our grasp. Yet we follow as is our will to follow. And we chase after Hope - that e'er elusive thing.

**--NightWatch24 **

**Tell me what you think! :)**


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